


What We Owe To Each Other

by ezjayce



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, so much slow burn sry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2019-07-20 14:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16139099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ezjayce/pseuds/ezjayce
Summary: Deacon hears word of a now ex-Brotherhood synth, exiled after being discovered, and tracks them down to offer his - and the Railroad's - assistance, but he doesn't expect to find a familiar face.





	1. Chapter 1

In all honesty, Deacon and Paladin Danse weren't friends. He'd be hesitant to refer to the soldier as _acquaintances,_ even-- maybe _two men from entirely different walks of life and with opposite worldviews who've met in passing a couple times?_ It could do without the wordiness, but long story short, they'd hardly met.

Deacon could count the conversations (actual, real conversations; not just the younger man shooting him glares or threats in response to jokes) they'd shared on one hand, even if someone were to chop his pinky off.

He remembered once having a heated argument with him, once the both of them had had enough cheap beer and whiskey to pick a fight over something trivial in the middle of a small settlement in downtown Boston. Another time Danse had nearly shoved him away from a weapons workbench to finish the task of modifying his preferred gun before Deacon really _did_ chop a finger off. But that one probably only half-counted, since it was more just Danse asking in that cold, stern, fed-up voice about the changes Deacon wanted to be made, since he was so _obviously_ a child who'd never modified a weapon before. But, grumble all he would, he'd also reluctantly admit on more than one occasion that Danse made impressively good work of it.

Another time Deacon asked him to fix up an old gun or two for him sometime in the future, cracked a couple jokes about wanting one of those big fancy power armour suits for himself, _just sans the Brotherhood propaganda plastered all over, y'know?_ It earned him a smile and then a stern glare, exactly in that order. Deacon considered it their most successful interaction to date.

Deacon would all but forget about these interactions entirely until they would suddenly become massively important all at once.

See, the good paladin often had more important work to do than sit around a variety of settlements, Minutemen or otherwise ('gathering intel', Deacon would refer to it, although many of those around him would call likely call it 'chain-smoking and not paying for beer') and the two fell in and out of each other's lives irregularly, and at random. They weren't friends, of course, (Danse made that abundantly clear to him, neither objected to it) so Deacon didn't keep tabs on him any more than what was necessary. He was yet another tall asshole clad in flashy armour that would likely get in the way of his work a handful of times, and that was that. Deacon was nothing if not a workaholic, you see, and there was plenty of _not-shady business_ to be done in the span of the few months they spent happily not so much as catching a glance of the other one.

So by the time word had spread through the synth-freeing grapevine that a Brotherhood soldier was rumoured to have been discovered as a synth and exiled, Deacon assumed it would be a complete stranger. The Brotherhood was a vast organization after all, and it wasn't as though the Institute _didn't_ have the means or ambition to infiltrate even their highest ranks.

He knew immediately that this would be no easy mission to complete. He was playing with fire here, hunting down a synth that could have ties to either the Institute or Brotherhood of Steel - or both, in a nightmare scenario - and attempting to rescue them could go south quickly if they wanted nothing to do with the Railroad after all that hard work. But regardless of the risk, there would always be the possibility that they _might_ accept his help, especially when backed into that corner. Outrunning the top 2 contenders for _'most dangerous group in the Commonwealth'_ could make someone a little desperate, and the thought of a probably innocent person cowering alone in terror for their life somewhere made Deacon shudder. And here he liked to pride himself on being a difficult man to make shudder.

The whispers were vague. It was like playing a week-long game of telephone with people who likely couldn't read or write, nor did they know how to use a real telephone, and they also didn't know what this supposed runaway synth looked like. Or if they really existed, for that matter. Gathering details about runaways was difficult in the best of times, but dealing with events that took place within the Brotherhood's ranks - let alone something they would find so atrocious as letting a synth into their organization - was like working with his hands tied behind his back. And he knew from experience how inconvenient that was.

But the whispers at least eventually gave him a possible location. A couple agents reported movement at an old pre-war military outpost to the north of the Commonwealth - a building that hadn't seen any real movement for years, decades even, now with running electricity and functional defence systems? Raiders or scavvers just passing through weren't likely to waste time and effort on that when they just wanted shelter for a night. The lead was shaky at best, sure, but at this point Deacon would take what he could get. A former Brotherhood soldier would at least have _some_ skills with tech, possibly enough to get electricity back up and running in an old pre-war building again, and setting up turrets would be easy as pie.

Deacon adjusted his pack where it was slung over one shoulder. It was a long, exhausting trek from the Old North Church, he wouldn't lie about that, especially when carrying enough food, water, and medical supplies for at least two people. Who knows how long it'd take for them to return to a large settlement with traders? Maybe they wouldn't want to leave with a stranger (which was understandable, Deacon wouldn't trust himself either), but he'd have to at least take a crack at convincing them, which likely wouldn't be an easy task. Even for a master liar and negotiator.

After all, it took a certain type of person to run from a force as powerful as the Brotherhood, barricade themselves inside a military bunker, set up defence systems should anyone come poking around... That is, if the person hiding inside Listening Post Bravo was actually that supposed runaway synth. It was always possible that it could just be some eccentric loner looking to escape society, Deacon mused while peering through the scope of his rifle at the bunker in question. It certainly wouldn't be the first nor the last time, and Deacon couldn't exactly blame them.

A shot rang out as Deacon pulled the trigger, landing a steady, precise shot to one leg of the protectron wandering outside.

_He'd seen more than enough of the worst of society. It'd be nice to get away from Boston every once in awhile._

He reloaded. Another shot to the protectron's other leg, and it fell to the ground.

_Maybe he could find a little cabin in the middle of nowhere to escape to for a few days out of the year. But it was nearly impossible to squeeze vacation days out of Desdemona._

A few more rapid shots to the protectron and to the two turrets on the roof of the bunker. All erupted into small explosions after the bullets caused fatal damage.

_Maybe he could form a workers union for Railroad agents. But those were_ so _pre-war, y'know? It'd never happen._

Deacon sat up on his knees and dusted dirt and grass off his shirt and jacket. He was perched on a hill not far from the entrance to the bunker, holding his rifle absentmindedly with one hand while he held a nearly-finished cigarette in the other. He had time to sit around and finish coming up with a makeshift game plan, now that he'd taken out the bunker's defences from out of harm's way. It was obvious since the moment he set out on this assignment that it wasn't going to be easy - Brotherhood soldiers never made _anything_ easy for _any_ Railroad agent - and not to mention whoever was inside was well-trained in military tactics and trying to escape/kill their superiors before they got inside.

From where he sat, leaned back on one palm with his other elbow rested on one bent knee, he contemplated a plan of attack. There had been no noticeable movement in the first level of the bunker before, during, or after Deacon took out the defence systems. So he had a couple options: he could assume that there really was no one inside, or perhaps that they were just some eccentric tech wizard that wanted to be left alone, or he could follow his gut instinct. And _come on,_ what are the chances all these military defences and robotics reboot and are restored to perfect working order _just_ as someone who could very well have knowledge of that stuff goes on the run? Like, what place would appeal _more_ to a former soldier, right?

It couldn't just be a coincidence.

Deacon flicked his cigarette into the dirt and snuffed it out with the butt of his rifle, which was quickly slung over one shoulder. After all, the first level of the bunker was either empty or home to a very terrified synth, he didn't need to go in guns-blazing. He slid down the hill towards the entrance to the bunker, kicking rocks and hunks of smouldering protectron out of the way as he did. The door swung open easily - although with a slow creak from the rusted hinges - so it didn’t seem whoever was inside was all that interested in keeping guests out of this level, at least. And it was pretty easy to see why. Aside from the usual culprits (dusty, dirty furniture, a prewar terminal still clinging to life, an old army skeleton, etc, etc…), this level was pretty devoid of anything important.

The Railroad agent took a moment to weigh his options. The only way onwards was an elevator deeper underground, which would be a risk to take alone when he didn’t know what was waiting inside the bunker, but it wasn’t like he could just sit up here and wait. Every flicker of the light behind the elevator’s buttons reminded him of time ticking by. The Institute (or the Brotherhood, if there really was a soldier down there) wasn’t exactly a force to race against -- but hey, Deacon would be damned if he didn’t take that challenge.

His thumb had already mashed the down button before he’d even really given it that much thought. Speaking of _not much thought_ , he hadn’t considered what he might say to whoever was down there, if a synth actually wound up hiding in this bunker after all. At best it would just be a gunfight, and at worst, it’d be an extremely delicate conversation where he’d be risking not only his cover as an agent, but both their lives as well. Dealing with synths who’d willingly run away from the Institute was one thing, but _finding out you’ve been a synth for god knows how long?_ Yeah, most folks in the Commonwealth wouldn’t be too happy to hear that, especially if Deacon’s suspicions were correct and it really _was_ a Brotherhood soldier down there.

The elevator doors creaked open. The overhead light inside flickered once, twice, before Deacon actually swallowed his nerves and stepped inside. He tried to blame that nagging anxiety on the elevator -- _who knew how old this thing was, right? And remember all those budget cuts during the war? This thing could plummet to the bottom at any second, Deacon._ \-- but it felt a little empty. The terminal supplying power to this thing had been unlocked and running, so chances were there would be someone waiting down here for him. Maybe it really was just some scavver, or a scared-to-death synth alive and well, or maybe someone else had already busted in and killed them. But, if that happened, this bunker would’ve been a lot more torn up, right?

The elevator’s motor whirred to life again and it started its descent with a jolt.

Deacon chewed on the inside of his lip, suddenly wishing for another cigarette. He could probably get away with smoking in here, right? The elevator already stunk like mold and 200 year old dust, it’s not like anyone would notice. But with his luck, the doors would probably pry themselves open the moment he puffed out a lung full of smoke. So he decided against it, shifting his rifle on his shoulder a little uncomfortably.

Almost on cue, a staticky _‘ding!’_ played over the old speakers, and the doors chugged open. With those two awful noises in succession, he didn’t doubt that whoever was down here was aware of Deacon’s arrival. He stepped forward cautiously. There was no sign of movement yet, no sound of a gun being loaded or armour rustling, but the agent couldn’t decide yet whether that was a good or bad sign. Dim lighting served only to illuminate the dust in the air and the absolute mess of a state the bunker was in these days. _If someone really was living down here,_ Deacon mused to himself, _they definitely weren’t in a hurry to tidy things up_ . There was the ever-present sound of flickering electricity, whirring old machines, creaking metal and concrete… But aside from that, _silence_. It seemed like the perfect place to go to reflect and be alone with your thoughts. The mere idea of it sent an unsettled chill down Deacon’s spine.

Deacon _wanted_ to call out and ask if anyone was there. He wondered if they would answer, or perhaps just whirl around, guns blazing. Or, y'know, he could just disturb some beast’s long slumber and it would rip him to shreds as revenge. He'd curse his active imagination, he thought as he crouched slightly to sneak forwards, if there weren't the chance of it making him a damn good author someday. Just in case society pulled itself together enough one day to afford the luxury of fiction books.

So he crept forward, head on a swivel. The room he was in - if he could still call it much of a room at this point - was in a state of disrepair, to say the least. Deacon could see through a window of sorts across from him and he was certain _someone_ was in there. If only part of the concrete wall hadn’t crumbled, taking the door along with it. He shuddered at the thought of having to walk through the literal _cave_ to get to the next room over. But hey, he just had to keep his end goal in mind, right? In the grand scheme of things, this wasn’t so bad.

“What are you doing here?” The voice spoke before Deacon had even fully stepped into the next room, while he was still brushing cobwebs and chunks of dirt off his clothes. The voice was familiar, at least, if only a little. If he hadn’t met Danse before, he’d be certain that the man in front of him had never been a soldier. The man who formerly stood confident and proud, towering over others in that shining suit of Brotherhood power armour, now sat slouched forward on an old pre-war cot. By all definitions, he was a husk of his former self. “Did Elder Maxson send you? _The Institute?_ ”

So _that_ was how much Danse trusted him.

It took him a good, long moment to recover from the shock he felt at seeing _Paladin Danse_ of all people sitting in front of him. He was careful not to show it, of course; the man had been through more than enough already, and Deacon wasn’t there to laugh or mock him. Regardless, he couldn’t help the memories called to mind of all the times Danse spoke proudly of _‘exterminating’_ synths, or his rants about how they posed a threat on par with the _atomic bomb_. It was ironic, sure, but Deacon would never say those words out loud. Danse was a smart enough man to assume this was a twisted form of karma.

“Nope,” Deacon eyed the laser rifle sitting within Danse’s reach. He still had his elbows on his knees and hands clasped in front of him and clutching what looked to be holotags. If he wanted to grab that gun and shoot him, Deacon was certain he would have done it the moment he stepped off the elevator. So he slid both his pack and the rifle off his shoulder and sat down in front of the cot, next to the former Paladin’s leg. “I’m just here as a friend.”

He didn’t need to look up to physically _feel_ Danse’s gaze narrow into a glare aimed at the back of his head.

“We’re not friends.”

“Aren’t we?”

Deacon craned his neck to turn and look up at him, only to be met with the same exact glare he’d imagined. It was deadpan yet stern and spoke volumes even if you didn’t know the man well. He could _see_ Danse’s frustration seething below the surface. At the very least, it was relieving to see a spark of emotion again in those lifeless eyes.

Danse turned his head to look back to his hands, and there was a long beat of silence.

“How did you find me?” Ah, and his voice returned to that defeated tone. It was hard to believe he was the same Danse he’d known for months -- the one who’d slaughtered deathclaws or barked orders at field scribes or laughed heartily once he’d had a few too many beers. Here he looked shrunken (and not just because he physically looked smaller without power armour), his eyes so much more tired & red from crying and his posture reflecting how beaten and bruised he must have felt. “I… didn’t tell anyone I would be coming here.”

“Rumours spread pretty quickly around the Commonwealth, you know,” They really didn’t. And Danse must have known that as well, with the look he shot Deacon for saying that. He’d hardly qualify this one as a glare, not really. It didn’t have the _heart_ behind it. The _fire_. It was by no means a kind look, but it was more quietly judging and discerning, as though Danse was trying to work out what exactly Deacon meant when he said that. “I just thought I’d pop by for a chat. No harm in that, right?”

His tone was light and a grin played on his cracked lips while he spoke, but he could tell immediately that Danse didn’t find it as charming and friendly as he’d hoped. His expression fell to something more serious after that. It was uncommon, certainly around someone he hardly knew (like Danse), but Deacon could tell when a joke was getting stale and this wasn’t the time or place to keep pushing it.

“Look, I know you’re a synth,” Danse bolted upright at that. Though he wasn’t looking, Deacon could hear that he’d reached for his gun, but he didn’t reach for his in return. Drawing weapons would make this worse -- he was better off staying seated exactly where he was an explaining things calmly. “Relax, big guy. I’m here to help. I’d sooner throw myself at a yao guai than work with those Institute slimeballs, and I’m damn sure there isn’t a chance in hell I could convince you I’m some super secret Brotherhood soldier, so let’s cut the shit, yeah?”

Well, Danse seemed to relax a little, so at least that worked, right? Deacon toyed with his lighter in his right hand, flicking the metal cap open and shut, partially to give him something to look at that wasn’t directly up at Danse.

“If I know you’re here, then the Brotherhood does too. And I think we both know they’re not gonna be as friendly as me. So if you wanna make it outta here alive--”

“No.”

Deacon would be lying if he said he hadn’t flinched at that. Danse interrupted him abruptly, without a second thought. This wasn’t _usually_ how negotiating with synths went down.

“Uh, come again?”

“I’m not leaving.”

Danse remained still as a statue, clutching his holotags in his left hand and resting his right on the grip. For once, Deacon turned fully to look up at him, slipping his lighter back into his pocket.

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

Danse gave a deep sigh.

“One way or another, it ends here. Maxson will send someone to kill me, or the Institute, or…” He swallowed, the hand resting on his gun shifting uncomfortably. “It doesn't matter. I won't be walking out of this bunker alive. Even if I _did,_ I wouldn't make it out of Boston. And I don't think I'd want to.”

Deacon had a difficult time not turning his gaze to something else. Every ounce of Danse’s tone and body language screamed that he really had _given up,_ that he had fully accepted death was truly his only fate. He had little to say in the way of a convincing speech; not yet at least, while Danse slowly opened his mouth to work up the nerve to say more.

“You know what I am. And you know everything the Brotherhood stands for. I can't… In good conscience, I can't betray the orders I've spent a lifetime following. Don't you understand? The Brotherhood of Steel _saved my life,_ I can't betray them after that. After _everything._ I owe them that much. Even if it's the last thing I'll ever do… I can die knowing I followed Elder Maxson's orders through to the very end.”

Well, Deacon knew the man was _dogmatic_ , but now he'd gotten a glimpse at the full extent of it. The Brotherhood's values and so-called morals had infected him like a virus, so totally that he was suddenly sure if he cut the man open, the blood pouring out of his open wounds would sing high praises of the Brotherhood. The idea made him queasy. That an organization claiming to be _bettering the world_ would so boldly and unabashedly poison its own soldiers with rhetoric that their lives mean nothing at all -- it made him want to puke, or scream, or slap Maxson so hard his stupid beard fell right off.

Or all those at once, preferably.

“Who gives a shit what the Brotherhood thinks?” Deacon spoke around the cigarette he’d placed between his lips to light. This god-awful conversation had made him itch for one. He could feel the waves of judgment pouring off of Danse, for both what he said and the horrible offense of him smoking indoors, in the former soldier’s presence. He took a long, deep breath, and exhaled the smoke as he continued. “You don't owe them shit, Danse. They're all hypocrites. One minute they're circle-jerking around their flying death machines, and the next they're slaughtering an innocent person with thoughts, feelings, and dreams -- even after that man’s saved a hundred lives, or more. You don't think that's a little _stupid?_ ”

Danse swallowed hard and opened his mouth quickly to offer some proud, angry rebuttal oozing with Brotherhood propaganda, but he fell silent before a single word got out. Deacon didn’t have to look to know he was fumbling, searching hard for a good reply -- and he didn’t doubt the man could come up with one, if he could stomach thinking about the Brotherhood in that moment. It was painful to witness, but hey, that was a pretty good sign for Deacon. The quicker he realized he both didn’t need to and _shouldn’t_ forgive the Brotherhood, the better.

“Look, all I’m saying is, I think we’ve all seen the kinda shit humans can do. How fucked up everything is because of our own damn mistakes. If we’re really gonna start pointing fingers at who’s to blame, I _really_ don’t think it’s the people trying to make an honest living, who had nothing to do with whether they were _born_ or _made_.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, letting the silence hang in the air. He didn’t exactly expect Danse to just accept his every word as the truth, but it was about time he start considering Elder Maxson just might be the piece of shit everyone outside the BoS knew he was. “Just saying.”

There was a longer silence between them than Deacon was comfortable with. He was half expecting the man to shout for him to shut up, or draw his weapon, or whatever exactly it was that the Brotherhood taught soldiers to do when people spoke up against them. It felt like there was always a chance of violence with them, so who knows? Usually one had to be a little more cautious when dealing with them, but in that moment, Deacon _wanted_ to kick the hornet’s nest.

Needless to say it came as a surprise to turn around and see Danse in the state he was in. He wasn’t _crying_ , per se, but it was pretty damn obvious that that’s exactly what he was trying to hold back, hunched forward with his forehead resting on the heels of his palms. He could see how his hands shook, his jaw clenched, his muscles tensed with the effort of keeping a sob contained. It was odd to see the man in this state. Not when he usually stood proud, a head above his peers, commanding and confident with the skills to back it up. He may have had it decently buried when Deacon first arrived, but it was starting to become clear just how much this information about himself _crushed_ him. His self-preservation, distinctly Brotherhood beliefs, and the fear of what Elder Maxson might do if this turned out to be true -- they all must have started a war in his mind that was taking a serious toll on him.

Deacon shifted to dig a can of purified water out of his pack and hold it out for Danse. Sure, it was a small gesture and probably meaningless in the long run, but in that moment he knew the man could use a little display of kindness.

“Look, uh, not to scare you or anything, but we should probably get a move on.” Deacon felt uneasy interrupting the man when he was clearly struggling, but they could always find a safer place for this, without the risk of the Brotherhood closing in. Whether or not Danse even heard him, he couldn’t tell - he didn’t move or seem to acknowledge that anything had been said. Deacon cleared his throat and tried again, sitting a little more upright and speaking louder. “We don’t know if the Brotherhood knows where you are, but I’ve got a couple friends who can help you out, get you settled into a new life--”

“Why aren't you listening to me?” Danse gripped the can of water in his hand so tightly Deacon worried he might crush it. And as impressive as that would be, it was damn concerning. When he spoke, he could hear the strain in Danse’s voice, the _force_ it was taking him to steady his voice. It didn't  work very well. “I don't… want to talk about it anymore. I want to be left alone to prepare a final message for Elder Maxson, or… whoever will discover my body here.”

“Okay,” He interjected far too casually, flicking his cigarette butt onto the dusty floor and crushing the last of its embers with a nearby chunk of concrete. Danse seemed a little surprised-- maybe at his supposed agreement, or that _for once_ Deacon had only said one word. Both were extremely rare and, as it would turn out, untrue. “So all the Elder’s horses and all his men will bust through that elevator door any second now, and we'll both die down here. It doesn't matter what you wanna do, I'm staying right here with you until you quit trying to find _any and all ways to die._ And you know why? I've known you a long damn time, Danse, long enough that I'd even say we're friends--”

Danse’s disapproving, annoyed frown was almost audible.

“-- _let me finish._ I've got kind of a personal code where I don't let friends die to stupid, hypocritical, violent regimes. And besides, it's not really like you have anything to lose.”

There was a long, long pause between them, and Deacon felt a little pit of anxiety growing in his stomach. The ex-paladin could be a smidge unpredictable at times - and that was coming from _him!_ \- and Deacon found he could be _excessively so_ after he hurled insults at Danse, or the Brotherhood, or Maxson, etcetera. What an enigma! But eventually there was a slow, heavy, to exhausted sigh, and Danse spoke quietly.

“...Fine. I'll leave with you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listening Post Bravo is left behind and Danse begins to re-adjust to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tentative tw for mentions of drowning!

Danse was certain every fibre of his body ached. His knees and calves from walking so far after so long without his power armour, his back from the weight of the supplies Deacon had brought for the both of them, his  _head_ …

God, of course his head ached, although worse than usual this time. It throbbed from the inside going outwards, as though his skull was building with pressure until perhaps it would finally burst. But he knew better than to expect that sort of sweet release by now -- knowing well the _purgatory_ he seemed to be trapped in, the pain would just pulse and pulse, build and build, but the torture would never end so abruptly and neatly. No, the incessant rambling from the man across from him imprisoned that word in his mind along with the headache he desperately wanted relief from. _Torture_.

It was early morning when they had left the bunker proper to make their way to, well… Wherever Deacon had agreed to rendezvous with his _‘friends’_ . They travelled quickly at first, eager to get as far away from it as possible before the Brotherhood arrived - _if_ they arrived - but the day seemed to stretch on impossibly as they walked. Of course it was likely they had slowed their pace once they both felt the threat of the Brotherhood discovering them had passed. But what Danse deemed _mostly_ at fault for the slower passage of time was Deacon himself.

The man never, _ever_ shut up. Of that much Danse was certain. If he had, he was absolutely positive he would have noticed it, because there was nothing he craved more in that moment than some peace and quiet to soothe the ringing in his ears.

Even now, after long hours had passed with Danse hardly interjecting to offer a word of his own, he still continued to chat as if none of the day’s events had really happened. A campfire crackled between them while they sat opposite one another; Deacon cooking a somewhat unappetizing meal he supposed was big enough for the both of them, and the former paladin staring listlessly into the roaring orange flame. The open beer in his hand had gone as ignored as the man across from him, even while some part of his brain registered that he was trying (and failing) to properly get his attention.

Danse felt heavy. Sluggish. Entirely drained, mentally and physically. He didn’t feel he had the energy left within him to respond to Deacon’s waving, to pull his eyes away from the open flame, to inhale the typically enticing scent of roasting radstag meat, to lift the bottle to his lips… Nothing. Some small part of him remarked smugly, sarcastically that it must have been a miracle he was even still sitting upright-- but then again, could he even summon the willpower to lie back in the dirt? What would be the purpose of that?

What was the purpose of him being _here?_ Not necessarily _there_ , just north of the river bordering Boston, sitting on dead grass and pebbles and breathing in disgusting quantities of smoke, but in the Commonwealth at all? He didn’t deserve any of this. It was all tremendously shitty: the company, the cheap alcohol, the tattered bedroll he’d try to sleep in that night, _his life_ \-- but it was all more than he deserved. After all, had the synths he’d encountered in the past even gotten this much before Danse’s laser rifle had disintegrated them? Why was _he_ of all people the exception?

A cold splatter against his face caused him to flinch and snap out of his trance. He blinked once, twice, and in a heartbeat his look of shock had turned to one of disappointment and muted anger. Deacon was sporting an insufferably proud smile from behind his sunglasses, a can held up and cracked open enough to douse the former soldier with water.

“ _Oops_ ,” Deacon set the can back down at his side, looking far too proud of himself while Danse wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“But  _somebody_ had to wake you up. C’mon Danse, you of all people should know you can’t just drift off in the field like that! What if something sneaks up on you? Radscorpion, Deathclaw… Toaster? Dunno what scares you. _Anyway_ , what’s important is that you stay alert. _Aaand_ eat something. It’s been a long day and I’ve hardly seen you _drink water,_ let alone actually eat some real food.”

All his lecture earned him was another blank stare from Danse. It took him snapping and waving his arm again to remind the former paladin to actually answer him, since he hadn’t moved to reach for anything Deacon prepared.

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” It must have been hours since he’d last spoken and the hoarseness in his voice betrayed that, but he didn’t yet cough to clear his throat. Even if he had, he still would have sounded just as defeated and exhausted, and Danse couldn’t even summon the energy to hate himself for it.

“God, I can’t believe I’m gonna have to lecture  _you_ , of all people.” Deacon had circled around the firepit to sit closer to him and pass him a can of prewar pork n’ beans that he’d heated over the open flame. After a beat of silence, Danse took it with little regard for how hot the outside would be, but _Deacon_ was the one to flinch at that.

“Look, you can’t just _not_ eat anything. I don’t care if you don’t want to. I’ll kick your ass if you starve before we get into town, alright? And I’m serious about that. I really don’t give a damn what you eat, so you can load up on Deathclaw steaks or roasted brahmin or whatever the hell it is you actually like, just eat _something_.” For once, Danse could hear in his tone of voice that he wasn’t joking, and his facial expression said the exact same. The absence of a grin on his face struck him as so deeply odd that he felt much too surprised to offer a proper reply for a good few seconds. And even more shockingly, Deacon stayed silent while he deliberated, watching him carefully and expectantly as he waited for an answer.

“Yes. Okay. You’re right.” He set down his beer in exchange for digging around his pack for an old, worn, bent metal fork, and Deacon seemed elated. Even more so when Danse poked at the contents of the can in his hand and finally took a bite. He really hadn’t noticed that pit of hunger grow in his stomach throughout the day, but now that he’d managed to get a few mouthfuls down, it wasn’t so difficult to polish off the entire can. Especially since Deacon hadn’t felt the need to make a smug comment about it. Or if he had, thank God he didn’t say it, or he would have been met with a sharp glare and the nigh molten pork n’ beans being poured down the back of his t-shirt.

Danse sooner noticed the quiet between them than the absence of his usual migraine. Deacon had finished eating whatever it was that he had cooked for himself and was now drinking a beer, leaning back on his empty hand just enough to comfortably tip his head back and supposedly admire the night sky. Although Danse couldn’t accurately determine whether or not his eyes were actually open and if he could see the stars clearly through his sunglasses. It was beautiful, he had to admit -- he didn’t remember the night sky being so breathtaking back in Rivet City.

Something in his chest lurched and his throat tightened in agony. _Had_ the sky been this beautiful in Rivet City? The memories felt foggy now, and he didn’t feel he could distinguish real from artificial anymore. Did he ever reside there? Did _anyone_ by the name of Danse? It hurt so deeply to think about, like a knife plunged deep into his heart and what little shreds of happiness and dignity he had left in him spilled out like fresh blood. He couldn’t look to his own memories to remind himself of his identity. He couldn’t _trust_ them. Hell, he couldn’t even trust _himself_ to remember that he hadn’t been _born_ , but _made_ in a lab as a duplicate to replace a living, breathing human being.

That heavy weight fell back on his shoulders. He wasn’t sure when it had returned, but again it threatened to crush him, suffocate him, and he was helpless under its force. He gasped for breath when it coiled around his chest and stomach as well, but the air burned at his throat and lungs like he’d inhaled fire. Or water. Was he drowning? It felt like it. Like something had grasped his ankle and pulled him under, deeper and deeper beneath the waves, and all of his kicking and screaming and fighting did nothing to save him.

No one knew he’d slipped under. No one _cared_ , least of all the people he had trusted most. Inevitably he would drown, his deep sorrow and guilt and fury filling up his lungs until he could no longer breathe. Inevitably he would be his own cause of death. And it would be precisely what he deserved.

Something squeezed his shoulder and Danse was hurled back into reality with a heaving gasp. Briefly, it felt as though someone had dragged him back to the surface, but even while he was treading water he was trying desperately to catch his breath. His lungs and throat burned with the effort. He was certain he was breathing oxygen again, but regardless how much air he sucked in, he continued to gasp and struggle to ground himself, his entire body swaying with the effort.

“Danse? C’mon, stay with me now, you’re alright.”

_Oh. Right._ Admittedly he’d gotten so lost in thought that he’d forgotten anyone else was nearby, let alone Deacon. He didn’t want to explain this to him. Hell, he doubted he even _could_. But still, he reached out to grasp at anything within his reach, vaguely recognizing that he was now tugging at the short sleeve of Deacon’s white shirt.

“ _Christ--_ okay, listen to me, you're gonna be okay, Danse. You’re listening to me, right?”

Yes. He was. But he didn’t know whether or not he was conveying that at all. Trying to speak only yielded a raspy wheeze and he couldn’t tell if his nodding was at all significant. He made an attempt at slowing his breathing down, as per the instructions he could vaguely hear Deacon giving him, but how was he supposed to _relax_ with those thoughts still coiling around his brain, wrapping around his limbs as if threatening to drag him back under the waves?

Danse wanted desperately for his breathing and his pulse to steady. This had never happened to him before, not so _severely_ and never when he hadn’t just woken up from a nightmare. If he could bring his mind to forget that he was a synth, that he’d now have to live out the rest of his miserable days as one of the very abominations he’d dedicated years to destroying… Perhaps _then_ he could rest.

His hands were shaky and had long since gone numb with pins and needles. He was dizzy, as though his head were spinning. His throat burned. With each trembling breath, he could feel where tears had begun to dry on his cheeks. Somewhat dimly, he recognized Deacon rubbing small circles into his upper back; a sensation he found soothing if only because it reminded him that he wasn’t alone, he wasn’t swept out to sea, and he wasn’t drowning under murky, irradiated tides. It was a long, slow process, but gradually he remembered where he was.

That shirt sleeve was released in favour of gripping at the gravel beneath their campsite. He was grounded somewhat by the dirt and grit, the warmth from the dying campfire, the cool, crisp night breeze. He was artificial, a misuse of technology, a _machine_ . But he felt, emotionally and physically, he breathed in oxygen and wept tears of sorrow, he ate food he loved and got drunk on booze he hated. He wasn’t human, but on some level he had existed until now. And perhaps not all of those memories had ever been his -- but remembering small experiences brought him some comfort. He was _real,_ by some definition of the word, and the more he reminded himself of that, the easier each breath came to him.

After the last of it had seemed to pass, Danse felt guilty. Not for bringing some burden onto Deacon, or making a scene, but because the man had handed him an opened can of water and Danse had hardly noticed despite definitely drinking some of it. It was a minuscule gesture but, much like Deacon keeping a hand on his shoulder throughout the entire ordeal, it meant a tremendous amount to Danse.

“Thank you. And… I’m sorry.” He could practically sense Deacon’s mouth opening to spew sarcasm before it actually did, and he held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t say anything. Please. Thank you for dinner and for your help. I would appreciate it if we… didn’t talk about this in the morning.”

He offered Deacon a weak smile, but surely it did little to comfort the man when Danse’s voice was still so shaky and the dirt on his cheeks was streaked with tears. Really, he felt much better, even though his vision dipped and spun when he got to his feet, and he promptly stumbled away from the campsite somewhat to vomit in a patch of bushes behind his makeshift tent. He both could and _would_ pretend Deacon hadn’t seen it and wasn’t asking more concerned questions, choosing instead to take a long swig of water and crawl into his tent for the night.

The other man tried to get his attention several times. Called out his name, hurled pebbles at the closest side of his tent, asked loudly if he was still awake… Danse’s replies were groans, one-word answers, and occasionally shouts for Deacon to _‘leave him the hell alone!’_. But he wasn’t nearly as angry with the man as his behaviour would likely lead him to believe.

He was exhausted. Tipsy. Rejected by his own brothers. His body ached for several reasons now. A man he hardly knew and didn’t trust had consoled him during what he could only assume was an anxiety attack, although he hadn’t suffered one in a long while. He wanted to be left alone, at the very least for one night, to process everything that had happened to him over the past couple days. When he came across stressful times in the past, Danse had kept a small metal cross dangling alongside his holotags that he would worry in his hands while he prayed to some higher power for assistance. Again he dug his (now former) holotags out of his pack to repeat this, curled up in a ratty old bedroll on the filthy ground, hoping that whatever God chose to listen to him didn’t loathe synths as Danse had and took mercy on his artificial soul.

At some point he drifted off to sleep, a much deeper one than most he’d had in the past years of his life; cross clutched in both hands while his holotags dangled on the chain just outside of his reach.

If he dreamt of anything, it wasn’t significant enough to wake him in the middle of the night, nor for him to remember once the sun rose.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gunfight on the edge of Boston, and for once Deacon can share a little honesty.

Deacon blinked once, twice; yawned, and slowly shifted to stretch his aching muscles. Birds cawing outside his tent at sunrise woke him up -- or maybe just the itch for a smoke? Honestly, he wished he could sleep in a little longer, but he doubted he’d be able to drift off again. Hell, he doubted he got more sleep than Danse, even considering the day he’d had yesterday.

And speaking of  _ yesterday _ , memories came flooding back to him as he dragged himself into the world of the conscious. 

Good god, had he  _ ever _ gotten himself in over his head with this one. Not that he wasn’t going to see this mission through to the very end, of course. But the synths he helped were typically fresh escapees or absolutely desperate for the Railroad’s help -- sometimes both! Well, mostly both. Danse fit neither category, not  _ really _ anyway, and spending time with mindless Brotherhood puppets felt like eating a can of prewar potted meat that hadn’t been sealed all the way. He'd help because Danse was a synth and that was his  _ job _ , but hearing him spew residual propaganda like a good little soldier was sickening.

Well, he wasn’t sure he’d call Danse a soldier anymore; for more than a couple reasons. Sure, he’d probably been exiled. Deacon wouldn’t be surprised for a single second if Maxson only wanted to see the man again to witness him bleeding out in the dirt. Anyway, point was, the man Deacon saw yesterday was pretty damn far from any kind of soldier. And even further from the person he knew Danse to be. 

Paladin Danse - commanding, dauntless, tenacious Danse - never hung his head, never let an enemy get the jump on him, never shrugged his shoulders and dropped his weapon in the face of death. But for the entirety of the day before, he’d done so much of those that he was hardly recognizable. 

It was gut-wrenching to think about, but some part of Deacon was deeply relieved to see the man have what  _ looked _ like some kind of anxiety attack the night before. While on one hand he wished it’d never happen again, on the other, he was so damn thankful to see some fight left in the former paladin. If he went numb to the world, he couldn’t turn his misery and rage in the direction it  _ should _ be pointed. If Danse gave up so soon, he would never get the help he needed -  _ deserved _ \- to get back on his feet. 

Deacon gave a heavy sigh and  _ finally _ decided to crawl out of his sleeping bag. He’d get up for a cigarette, to pack up and hit the road, to check how Danse was holding up. 

Sure, he had a list, but his priorities for the moment were obvious when he unzipped his tent and stood up to his full height with a lit cigarette already between his lips. Danse, with the majority of his belongings (including his bedroll and tent) already packed neatly and efficiently, gave the smaller man a silent, disapproving look. In turn Deacon laughed brightly, his breath visible in the crisp autumn air only partially because of the smoke he exhaled. 

“Well well, look who likes an early start! I’m just glad you didn’t wander off without me. Y'know, just take off in the night and ditch me holding the bag.” Danse was sitting on a large rock bordering the riverbed and Deacon joined him. Much to the former paladin’s disapproval, if his frowning and waving cigarette smoke away were anything to go on. “I’m just kidding, I know you’d never do that. How’d you sleep?”

“Fine. Yourself?”

Eugh. Talk about cold shoulder. Not that Deacon expected a warmer reception, to be honest, but at least  _ curt _ was better than  _ silent _ . Or worse yet, absent entirely! 

“Slept like a baby. But like, a rich baby in the upper stands of Diamond City. One who doesn’t have to think about feral dogs and the like.” Deacon lied through his teeth, wholly visible in a large grin that Danse hadn’t even bothered to turn and look at. In reality, he’d gotten  _ maybe _ a couple of good hours of sleep in, but he didn’t need Danse worrying about him when he needed to be worrying about  _ himself _ . He’d seen how unbelievably self-sacrificing and generous the man could be, if you could stomach all the regurgitated Brotherhood drivel he shouted.

Danse’s only acknowledgement that he’d said anything at all was a quick hum.

“I would like to avoid the more densely populated areas of the Commonwealth. I recommend staying within sight of the riverbed so as not to stray too far into downtown Boston, but you haven’t told me where we’re going.” Well, Deacon couldn’t argue with that. He hadn’t told Danse and he really had no intention to, not while there was still the possibility of the Brotherhood tracking them down looming overhead. What if he was captured and tortured? Would he confess where Deacon told him they were headed? It seemed pretty unlikely that all this was just a rouse to find the Railroad, but  _ still _ , he couldn’t just trust Danse so quickly. 

“Nuh-uh, no can-do, pal. I'm breaking a metric shit-ton of rules just  _ thinking _ about hauling your ass where we're going, so the least I can do is keep my mouth shut on the way there.” It just wasn’t worth the risk. Deacon shrugged, taking one last drag of his cigarette and flicking it into the river. Danse’s gaze trailed it as it floated slowly out of sight, his expression grim and downcast. He felt for the man - well, about as much as he  _ could _ relate to someone with whom he shared pretty much no life experiences. But he could at least  _ try _ to make an effort to empathize with him, especially after seemingly no one else he knew cared to.

“I understand. You don’t trust me.” Danse rose to his feet without so much as casting a glance in Deacon’s direction. But he didn’t have to for the agent to see such strong disappointment leaking through the cracks in his carefully crafted stoic expression. 

“Well, no, ‘course not! But I don’t trust anyone, so you’re  _ really _ not all that special.” How could  _ that _ not cheer him up? He stood, looking expectantly at Danse, whose face had fixed into a frown as he gathered his belongings from their campsite.

The silence between them was making him plenty uncomfortable, and he disliked even more just how ready Danse seemed to bolt off on his own, so Deacon hurried to pack up the rest of his own things before that ever became a reality. And at least as reluctant as Danse seemed to engage in any conversation, at least he was waiting for Deacon, right? It felt like such a small, insignificant action, but if the former paladin still believed he shouldn’t be alive anymore, he probably would have walked off to find the nearest Deathclaw.

So… progress?

At least  _ something _ had changed between them, since that heavy, uncomfortable silence still weighed on Deacon’s shoulders as they walked. Maybe Danse was more comfortable not talking, he’d never know - but he  _ hated _ it. He couldn’t stand not being able to chat and joke to lighten the mood, as well as he knew the former paladin wouldn’t receive it well, at least he could think about shitty jokes instead of whether or not this new acquaintance would be throwing himself in front of a minigun because Deacon hadn’t done his job well enough or fast enough. 

He shook his head, slipping a cigarette between his lips, striking a match to light it, and lifting his gaze again in time to catch the look Danse was giving him. 

“What?” He wouldn’t describe it as angry, disapproving, disgusted… Really, he struggled to place it. It was a stern sort of look, but more exhausted than anything else.

“You were smoking before we left camp as well,”

_ Exasperated? Was that the word? God, how did he even  _ spell _ that? _

“You should be more cautious with regards to addiction. It’s a short step from cigarettes to chems.”

Deacon took a long, steady drag as Danse continued prattling on while they walked. At least, he  _ assumed _ he kept lecturing, but he’d long since tuned the man out. Really, he meant no offence, but in Deacon’s opinion he’d lived long enough to keep up his habits and continue happily ignoring any information anyone - most of all  _ anyone _ affiliated with the Brotherhood - spit out in his general direction. 

“ _ Deacon! _ Listen to me!”

Before he could reply, Danse had seized his arm and yanked him backwards so hard he was honestly more surprised that his shoulder hadn’t dislocated. 

“Are you trying to get yourself shot? Watch where you’re walking!”

It was the first time in a long while Deacon had seen such emotion in his features. Since he’d first found Danse in that bunker he’d been mostly silent, mostly deadpan, and entirely lifeless - but he’d finally seen a spark of fury in the man. Perhaps it was just that old Brotherhood training kicking in, but he’d prefer to tell himself it was that survival instinct returning to the man. 

And speaking of an instinct to survive, Deacon figured it was about time to have one as well. His gaze shifted from Danse to the direction in which the man was now staring and readying to point his weapon. Raiders, of course - a group of five, thankfully paying more attention to their own conversation than to anyone else who might be nearby. Sticking to the main roads, weapons holstered in favour of smokes and drinks, leaving downtown Boston in broad daylight.  _ Probably not very dangerous,  _ Deacon assessed,  _ or at the very least, confident they could win any gun fights that might break out.  _

“What do you think, run or shoot? ‘Cuz I was kinda enjoying having a nice, quiet day, but if you’re feeling up to a little murder then I think I could maybe--”

“Do you ever  _ shut up? _ ”

Danse had fixed him with a harsh glare, one hand raised like he considered clapping it over Deacon’s mouth but eventually decided against it. And sure enough, their bickering (or more likely Deacon’s own chatter, even if they both spoke barely above a whisper) had drawn the attention of the nearby gang. Among the chatter of ‘shit’s and ‘what was that?’s, Danse had again grabbed his arm, this time to drag him further away from the road they’d been walking parallel to, far enough to duck behind a cluster of sharp boulders and trees for cover. Hearing weapons being readied behind them, Deacon took the opportunity to load his rifle, as Danse had already long since prepared himself for a fight. 

“We could have easily walked away without them noticing us. We’ll be lucky if they don’t start a fight.”

“What? I heard you love getting shot at. That’s like, the point of being Brotherhood, isn’t it?” Off he went again, running his mouth to rile Danse up. But, to be fair, he at least  _ kind of _ had a point. He knew well that Danse (hopefully) didn’t have much interest in getting shot, but he’d certainly been known to run head-first into danger, especially against raider lowlives who wouldn’t run away when they had the chance.

“Don’t be an idiot. And keep your voice down,” Danse shifted forward into a crouch, readying himself to stand up and bolt. “Stay here, I’m going to flank them.”

Deacon opened his mouth to offer a witty reply but found himself fumbling to say anything at all once the air around him exploded with gunfire and shouting. He was certain they could have gotten away with hiding where they were and just waiting for them to leave, after all, they didn’t seem all that eager to pick a fight in the first place - but Danse had long since decided to follow through on his plan to flank them, now fully engaged in a gunfight. Once he was certain the gang of Raiders had turned their attention fully to Danse, he twisted to peer over the rock he was using for cover. 

One Raider most definitely dead on the ground, another wounded and being treated by a friend while partially behind cover, and the final two sticking to their guns to hold their own against Danse. 

Deacon hated the thought, but he was beginning to regret trusting Danse. Not because he was revealed to be a synth, of course, but with the whole ‘nature vs. nurture’ thing, it was clear nurture had won, and maybe Danse was simply doomed to behave like a Brotherhood soldier for the rest of his life. He _wanted_ to have faith in Danse, _wanted_ to believe he wouldn’t turn that gun on Deacon’s friends and family once they reached the Old North Church, _wanted_ to hope there was a future where Danse could finally find some peace and happiness. 

He turned to rest his back against the boulders again. More shots rang out, explosions, cries of pain and anguish. He couldn’t let this go on, Danse would kill the five of them with ease. Surely the Raiders would take the opportunity to flee if it was given to them. Deacon grit his teeth and positioned his rifle on top of the boulders, only somewhat using the scope to take aim. Even if Danse could hear him over the sounds of warfare, he doubted the former soldier would even listen to him, if the way he had completely tunnelled on the Raiders in front of him was anything to go by. Through his scope, Deacon followed the man’s movements carefully, waited patiently for him to take the right steps, kept his head between the crosshairs, drew a long, deep breath - and he fired. 

If the gunshot itself didn’t catch Danse’s attention, the bullet whizzing past his ear certainly would, especially as it embedded itself in a thick, dead, old tree behind his head with a thunderous crack. Deacon felt a small swell of pride and victory in his chest as the noise made Danse lower his weapon to turn sharply in his direction, looking to see what the hell had just happened. And in that brief moment of calm, Deacon shouted without standing from his hiding place. 

“So get the hell out of here, Raider scum!” _Maybe he could use a little more practice making his voice sound deeper and more intimidating._ “This is your last chance! Go on, scram! And tell your friends too!” 

For a moment, Danse’s focus turned back to the surviving few, but the eagerness with which they clambered over themselves to surrender seemed to make him choose mercy instead. Well, mercy for the Raiders - but definitely not for Deacon. Not by the way the former soldier stormed off the road and back up towards Deacon’s cover. 

“What the hell were you thinking?! You almost killed me! You had better come up with a good explanation for yo-”

“What the hell were _you_ thinking?” Deacon rose to his feet quickly, having to look up at Danse but still speaking with a certain fire and fury that was extremely rare from him. “I’m trying to _help_ you, and you can’t just… You aren’t Brotherhood anymore, you can’t kill strangers in the streets, okay? Jesus Christ man, you said it yourself, we could have just sat there hiding and they probably would have walked away. That just isn’t how we do things.”

“ _We?_ ” Danse had looked down at him with the same stern frown the entire time he spoke, but it changed to something angrier at his last sentence. Something harsh, cold, and accusatory. “Our lives were at risk, I took the necessary precautions-”

“ _Precautions?_ You’re gonna lecture me about fucking _precautions_ when there could have been five people lying dead on the pavement? I know the Brotherhood isn’t used to it, but you need to think about the repercussions of your actions now! What if those people have families? Friends somewhere who care about them? _Kids to feed?_ Come on, Danse, I’m trying to trust you here, but do you need to make it so fucking difficult?”

_God, he was such an idiot._ There was a brief spark of fury in Danse’s expression before it fell to something more deadpan; a mask Deacon could tell was hiding something immensely sad. Technically he meant everything he’d said, but admittedly, he would have chosen his words a little differently had they not just been through a gunfight. 

There was a long, long silence between them while Danse crouched to gather his pack and stow his weapons again. 

“Is that what you think of me? Of the Brotherhood of Steel?”

“Come on, Danse, don’t start this.”

“I’m serious. Do you think of me as some cold-blooded murderer?” Deacon felt uncomfortable with the steady eye contact and opted to pretend his pack was suddenly extremely interesting. 

“I mean… what kind of answer do you expect, man? Really? I just watched you shoot at those people first, and it’s not like you learned that all on your own. _Every_ Brotherhood soldier is like that. Shoot at everyone different than you, and never ask any questions because you’re too busy looting the innocent corpses you’re walking over.”

He didn’t have to look up at Danse again to know his words stung. For once in his life he felt he should be honest, if only because Danse had a good reason to not take it so personally anymore, and it might just help him snap out of it enough to reach out to better people for help. He chewed his bottom lip but continued to speak.

“Just look what they did to _you,_ Danse. I’m not trying to say _you’re_ a monster, or that everyone who’s Brotherhood is a monster, but… come on, you must have taken off those rose-coloured glasses by now, right? You of all people must see they’re bad for the Commonwealth, right?” 

He slung his bag over one shoulder, looking back to Danse for some kind of sign that he wasn’t about to run off or punch Deacon in the nose. He searched his expression for a read on how he might be feeling - but the man was pretty skilled at keeping it unreadable. That, and Deacon got the sense he didn’t like to outwardly show his emotions much. 

The silence hung between them, growing more and more uncomfortable with every passing second. Deacon, for one, was eager to get the hell out of there and change the subject, but he couldn’t help feeling like whatever small amount of trust had built between them might have fractured. But hey, Danse hadn’t shot him yet, right? So maybe that was a good sign?

It was so long, in fact, that by the time Danse finally answered him, it nearly made Deacon jump. His voice was quiet, his head hung low, and his gaze kept firmly at the dirt in front of his feet. For once that wasn’t difficult to read - Deacon had sure fucked something up between them.

“I… don’t think I can talk about this right now. Later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh, thanks to everyone for your continued patience with me! i hope everyone's enjoying the tension and drama thus far! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our pair stumbles upon the Old North Church, Danse wrestles with his identity.

If Danse was thankful for one final thing in this life, it was that Deacon had seemingly finally learned how to shut the hell up.

He didn’t mind following the man to wherever he wanted to drag Danse. He had nothing left to live for, no reason to put up a fight. He didn’t mind the long journeys, day in and day out - he had long since grown accustomed to that, after all. But the one thing he had never grown used to in his career as a soldier was so much _incessant chatter_. It was distracting when one needed to focus on their surroundings, and one often did, wandering this close to downtown Boston in the broad afternoon daylight.

But after their disagreement, a comfortable silence had finally, _finally_ settled between them. Danse was left wondering what the true reason behind it could have been. He struggled to believe Deacon felt too awkward to act as though he hadn’t said anything cruel; the man seldom felt shame for anything, in Danse’s experience. Such actions didn’t differ very much from ignoring the comfort of others as well, so a simple understanding that Danse didn’t wish to talk about the Brotherhood at the moment seemed unlikely as well.

Maybe the distance, the quiet, was a small kindness born of pity. The logical conclusion for Danse was that the man planned to bring him to his death, one way or another - whether it be turning him into the Brotherhood or Institute in exchange for caps (or maybe he’d settle for a pack of cigarettes?) or just killing him himself. Under different circumstances Danse would have demanded proper answers or, at the very least, put up a fight before his inevitable doom, but he no longer felt he had the heart for it.

If he were to die within the week, then so be it. He had already cheated death once, so it was about time for him to get his dues.

“Are you hurt?”

Of course, the silence Danse had cherished was shattered too soon. Was it too soon? Perhaps he had been lost in thought - the sun now hung low in the sky, dipping below the partially destroyed buildings of downtown Boston, signalling the rapid approach of both nightfall and presumably their destination.

Deacon had pressed a hand to his shoulder to stop him walking past and ignoring him. And no matter how much Danse wished to press on regardless, he gave a small grunt before a proper reply.

“You should be more concerned with other things.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Deacon had seldom looked so genuinely fed up, at least not that Danse could recall. Even at the worst of times, the man had an irritating tendency to remain jovial - so as he glared at Danse through his dark sunglasses, he felt a little uneasy. “If I didn’t say anything, you’d have limped halfway across the ‘wealth.”

Danse felt his lips curl into a disapproving frown. He could tolerate such remarks coming from his superiors amongst the Brotherhood of Steel, but a drifter in blue jeans who often forgot to tie his own shoelaces? There was certainly a line between the stern but fair assertion from a commanding officer and a rude, unwarranted comment from a man he hardly knew.

“As I already told you, you should be worrying about more important things than a small scratch. I can tend to it myself when we have set up a camp for the night, and that way we won’t slowing down our travel.”

Deacon made a quiet _tsk_ sound and, from Danse’s perspective, rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. Would he really be so irritated about a small wound?

“If you doubt my medical skills -”

“God, man, just sit down and shut up, would you? We’re almost there, lemme just take a look at it now. I don’t exactly wanna leave a trail of blood for any mutants or ferals that wanna follow us around town, alright?”

Danse opened his mouth to protest - Deacon was over exaggerating, surely, he wasn’t so wounded as to leave a physical trail behind them as they walked - but closed it after a moment without saying anything. He couldn’t muster the strength to defend himself where he usually might, as much as he didn’t appreciate being underestimated, they were probably equally stubborn and unwilling to let this go if Danse didn’t yield first.

With a sigh,  he lowered his pack from his shoulders and slowly sat with his right leg extended in front of him. At the back of his calf, a tear had ripped clean through both his Brotherhood flight suit and the flesh and muscle, likely at the hand of a downed Raider’s dagger, trying desperately to deal a little damage in return after already being shot. It had bled more than Deacon had likely noticed earlier, before the sun had begun to set and while he was still seething over Danse’s actions, but the blood had since clotted.

At least, enough to slow the bleeding to a point where he wouldn’t leave a trail in the dirt.

Deacon made another disapproving noise while he took a seat beside him to inspect his wound more closely.

“As you can see, it’s hardly a pressing concern. I have to recommend we continue towards whatever your destination is and treat it while indoors.”

This time Deacon didn’t even bother to answer - his face screwed into a look of determination and concern while his hands buried themselves into his pack for medical supplies. Danse couldn’t decide which was worse - the man talking nonstop about nothing at all, or intentionally ignoring him when he tried to raise very rational points. Trying to reason with him was clearly useless - Deacon had already fished a stimpak from the depths of his bag.

“You should be saving that for a larger wound.” Danse found himself speaking without first considering his words, “This will heal quickly on its own if you properly disinfect and bandage it.”

The man made and held eye contact, offering Danse only a stubborn frown before promptly injecting his upper calf, discarding the used stimpak, and making short work of bandaging the rapidly healing wound. A likely unnecessary precaution, but Danse couldn't help but appreciate it nonetheless, in case the wound wouldn't fuse entirely shut. Deacon even made an attempt at wiping blood from his Brotherhood flight suit, but Danse was quick to swat his hands away.

“You'll have to replace this soon.” He seemed content to ignore Danse's short temper with him. Or perhaps he hadn't noticed the scowl he wore while shooing Deacon away? It would always be difficult to tell what he was thinking. “You can't keep dressing Brotherhood - we'll find something for you.”

Danse considered those words while they both got to their feet and began to pick up their belongings again. Nevermind the implications of _'we’,_ he didn't particularly enjoy the thought of disposing what little remained of his physical possessions tying him to the Brotherhood. He had never been one to be materialistic, but he knew now better than ever to distrust his own memories, so he had little else aside from holotags, crucifixes, and bright jumpsuits proving to him that he really had served the Brotherhood of Steel. Nevertheless, he nodded numbly along, offering up an absent minded answer to assuage Deacon’s concern.

“Yes. I suppose we will.” He didn’t _want_ to. Now overly conscious of his brown Brotherhood-issue aviator jacket and the protection it offered him from the cold evening wind, he was even more reluctant. He took comfort in small things like practical clothing, and pride in association with a force like the Brotherhood. Even still, knowing what they might do to him. They were in the right, after all.

From in front of him, Deacon raised one hand from his rifle to signal silently for Danse to stop.

“We’re here. Keep quiet.” For once he didn’t do the opposite as he said, keeping his voice low enough for only Danse to hear, careful not to alert whomever might be nearby. And now that Danse was no longer lost in his thoughts, he had time once more to take in their surroundings.

The sun had set. His eyes had enough time to adjust to the darkness, so perhaps he hadn’t noticed its onset, but the only proper light in their vicinity came from a small oil lantern. Danse wondered briefly who had the time to keep it lit. They stood in front of a church, one a man like Danse might have frequented had he been alive before the war. One he might have even visited these days had it not been mostly destroyed by God knows what and positioned in the heart of a dangerous area in downtown Boston.

“We’ll head inside, you wait upstairs, and I’ll do all the talking. Just wait for me to come back up and tell you it’s safe, alright?”

Danse nodded. He realized only afterwards that it likely came across numb and stiff, and not at all reassuring.

“Yes. I’ll wait.”

“Yeah, okay, and one more thing,” Deacon had whirled around to face him properly, standing on the porch in front of the entrance with his back to the door. The extra few inches of concrete beneath his feet raised him almost to eye level with Danse. His voice and expression had been serious since they arrived at the chapel, but now they seemed doubly so. He poked a finger to the front of Danse’s shoulder as though it might intimidate him.

“Don’t fuck us over in there. I’m taking a big risk, bringing you inside, alright? So I need you to trust me. Trust _us_. And we all need to believe you’re not still Brotherhood enough to shoot us all between the eyes, alright?”

“I understand.”

“No. Say it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me you’re not gonna fuck us over. Tell me this isn’t some weird Brotherhood scheme to get their hands on us. I’m not gonna say it again, alright, I’m trying to _help_ you here, and if you mess this up, it’ll be _all_ our backs.”

Danse blinked. It was difficult to offer up an honest agreement when Deacon was still being so vague; he had no idea to what _‘us’_ he was referring, and he was still unsure of what precisely Deacon wanted him to say. But the idea that he might have been lying about a potential exile from the Brotherhood for being a synth sparked a little fury in him again.

“I’m not a liar.” _Unlike some people,_ he thought, more than a little bitterly. He had to fight to not murmur it aloud in his frustration. “And I don’t need your help. Whatever you want to offer me…”

Deacon interrupted him with another raise of his hand.

“Spare me the stubborn act, for the love of God. At least wait ‘til you meet my people before you throw us to the gutter, hey?”

He swallowed thickly. Perhaps it was just that his throat was dry, but maybe it was just difficult to swallow his pride. Not that he would ever admit that’s what he’d done.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Any of you.” He tacked on that last part a little tentatively, wondering again just who Deacon was bringing him inside to meet. “I’m not… My affiliations no longer lie with the Brotherhood of Steel. Elder Maxson will see to it that I am branded a liar and a traitor, should he even keep me alive long enough to do so.”

Whatever Deacon was trying to get him to say, he must have heard it, even though Danse hadn’t answered his questions exactly as they were presented. He gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable from behind his sunglasses, and turned to open the door to let them both inside.

Danse’s suspicions about the place having been torn apart were confirmed. Once they were in the main hall he could see the extent of the damage; chunks of roofing and support beams having collapsed inwards to block off many of the rows of pews. Had he still been in charge of his recon squad, they would have likely passed over this place, due to its structural instability and lack of any real resources. But _‘Deacon’s people’,_ whatever that meant, must have seen some value in it to set up here. Not that Danse could see them yet.

Speaking of Deacon, he offered Danse a quick pat on the shoulder before disappearing from his right side. Weaving through rubble and making a beeline to a surprisingly intact wooden door.

“Sit tight, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Danse offered a nod for an answer, but the other man was likely gone before he’d seen it. At least he must have trusted Danse enough not to demand a proper answer again like he had at the front entrance. He glanced around the room once more, unsure of what he should do with himself. Deacon hadn’t given him any sort of estimate on how long he might be gone for. Although, he had recommended sitting, so…

He took to the closest pew to him, the furthest to the back. He wondered if this is where he might sit had he been able to attend church pre-war. Indoors, even with a gaping hole torn in the roof, it was still quieter than outside. Here he heard only the creak and groan of old wood, and while he stared upwards at the starry night sky above him, he allowed his eyes to slip closed for a moment. His right hand found the dog tags around his neck, removed them, and clasped the small metal crucifix between two fingers.

It had been a long while since he had found such peace. Rarely had he ever gotten such absolute silence on the Prydwen or while scouting new locations in the Commonwealth with his squad. He would bow his head in prayer in the evenings, between finishing daily reports and falling asleep, but it was always so different from this moment. One had to constantly remain on guard in the Commonwealth - his prayers were quick, half-hearted, while he listened for the sound of gunfire or ghouls groaning outside. And on the Prydwen he was always bunked near other soldiers, and while he was accustomed to it, it meant there was never any real silence or solitude.

But in this ruined church, fearing no death that might come his way, he could fully relax and immerse himself in it. He could sink deeply into his thoughts like they were a calm, gentle sea. The waves lapped at his chin, splashing refreshing salt water over his face. It was comforting. He didn’t have to worry about drowning.

He whispered a prayer. Many prayers. He didn’t beg for mercy, after all, he had accepted his fate. He would die, likely soon, and he would likely be met with hellfire shortly after his final breath.

He asked only for forgiveness. From his fellow soldiers and friends, from Elder Maxson, from whatever God was listening to him.

Footsteps behind him tore Danse from his thoughts without mercy. He was quick to pocket the little metal chain he held and reach instead for his laser rifle, but the person behind him was quicker. A hand squeezed his shoulder and when a familiar laugh rang in his ears, his tension slipped away somewhat.

“So this is what you’re doing up here? Taking a nap?”

 _Inconsiderate as always_. Danse lifted his pack over his shoulder again as he stood, shaking Deacon’s hand off of him.

“C’mon, let’s roll. I talked with the folks downstairs about it and they’re looking forward to meeting you.” Deacon spoke with too wide of a grin on his face, leading Danse to feel more than a little skeptical of their upcoming meeting.

“Just a few minutes ago you seemed worried they might react poorly to a Brotherhood soldier, if your interrogation was anything to go by.” Why else would they not trust Danse?

“Yeah, well, y’know… So maybe I didn’t really tell them the Brotherhood thing. I just said that you’re a synth, that you need help, and that you’re maybe a little scary about not wanting it. And that people are out to kill you. So, y’know, they’re on your side here.”

Danse held his breath. He felt his shoulders tense up once more, and just after he had finally felt some sense of calm just moments earlier. It did him no favours that Deacon was leading him underground, where the old brick hallways and gravel floors seemed to twist and wind on forever like some inescapable maze in a nightmare. He wasn’t sure what struck him as more eerie - the complete and total darkness in these catacombs, or that Deacon seemed able to navigate them without a light.

Finally, they came close to a gap in the brick walls, past which Danse could hear voices talking in hushed whispers to one another. He had already been holding his laser rifle in both hands from when Deacon had startled him earlier, but now he raised it, his right index finger placed on the trigger. A noise close to him made him jump before he realized it was only Deacon again.

“Holy shit man, just breathe. There’s nothing down here to be afraid of.” His voice was quiet, of course, likely to keep from alerting the people ahead, and he pressed Danse’s arm down with one hand to get him to lower his gun. It did nothing to steady his nerves about the impending meeting. And then, before he felt he had enough time to prepare himself, it was already upon them.

They had rounded the corner, turning to face a small room built into the catacombs, and the floodlights nearly blinded him after his eyes had become so adjusted to the darkness. Deacon however seemed unfazed, and stepped forwards to speak with the small group of people while Danse blinked repeatedly to soothe his eyes and try to take in the faces in front of him. He wasn’t sure what exactly he expected, he recognized none of them - but the way they all turned to glance at him repeatedly was damn disconcerting. Danse wished suddenly that Deacon was back at his side, speaking in his place. He had plenty more charisma, and not to mention that he already knew these people and what he should say to calm them down.

“Alright, folks!” Deacon spun on his heel from where he had been speaking in hushed whispers to a woman slightly taller than him, whose red hair barely touched her shoulders. He slunk back over to Danse’s side, the two of them hyper-aware of the eyes on them. “So _thisss…_ is Danse. Paladin Danse. Brotherhood, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

So it may have been the elephant in the room, but he felt a little uneasy with it being mentioned so casually. Especially with a certain white-haired woman carrying a minigun with ease, eyeing him like the target at a shooting range. He counted one other man in the room, so 3 strangers in total, looking at him as though he would throw a grenade any second.

Initially Danse was offended that they were so quick to judge him, after all he saw no fault in the Brotherhood’s methods or ideologies, but… Were _‘Deacon’s people’_ synths? It would certainly explain their looks.

Deacon elbowed him in the side, prompting Danse to save him from the spotlight and offer up an explanation for himself. He lowered his rifle to the ground and cleared his throat.

“ _Formerly_ Brotherhood of Steel. Danse is acceptable, I’m not exactly…” Again, he coughed awkwardly. The pressure in this room to make a decent first impression was suffocating. In only a short few days, the confidence he once held seemed to have vanished. “Danse is fine. I’d be uncomfortable, were you all to call me by my first name.”

“Aaaand?” Deacon urged him onwards. As if there was anything more for Danse to say that this group didn’t already know.

“I… am a synth.” There was more he wanted to say - that this was only a recent discovery, that the Brotherhood would not take him back after uncovering this information, that Elder Maxson most likely wanted his head for it. Instead, Deacon stepped forward once more, making another attempt at alleviating some of the tension in the room.

“So we were thinking something like a full wipe, new face, new everything. A nice, fresh start.” Deacon continued to ramble, but Danse had since tuned out, focusing on his previous words. Surely he wasn’t implying that Danse truly wished to erase his entire past, was he? He reached out, wanting to take Deacon’s arm and insist he take that back, but he was too late. An entrance had been revealed towards the back of the room and the group moved tentatively towards it, continually glancing back at Danse like they were still worried he would pick up his rifle again and fire.

“Deacon. Wait, please.” Surprisingly, he stopped. The other three had filed through the door, down a staircase into a deeper level of the catacombs, but Deacon had paused to listen to him. Danse tried to see past his sunglasses to get a clear view of his eyes, but the room they stood in didn’t have the lighting for it.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

Now that the time came to voice his concerns, he struggled to find the right words. Would Deacon think him foolish for clinging to things he had no rightful ownership of? If he had brought other synths here, did they behave similarly? Or were they itching to rid themselves of a stranger’s past?

He pictured Cutler. Growing up together, joining the Brotherhood of Steel, Danse holding the barrel of a laser rifle to his temple and pulling the trigger. Comforting Scribe Haylen after the death of a squad mate, mentoring her on repairing old, broken down pieces of prewar tech, yelping as she set a broken bone back in place. He pictured the cloudy days in Rivet City, and the gorgeous twinkle of stars in the night sky above the Commonwealth.

He couldn’t discern his own memories from replicated ones implanted in his artificial brain from another man’s life. So to him, they were all the same.

Danse sucked in a deep inhale. It seemed so ridiculous to him, feeling exposed and vulnerable about such a simple request. Deacon quirked an eyebrow and tipped his head somewhat sympathetically while waiting for an answer.

“Please, do what you must, but… Don’t take them away. Let me keep my memories, I’m begging you. _Please_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh, i've missed writing danse! and since his previous chapter was so short, i tried to make this one a little longer, ahaha. thanks to everyone for your patience! <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude before Goodneighbour; before upending any decent memories.

At last, they had settled in to the Railroad HQ. While it was only a couple days of travel, it felt like it stretched on forever, what with all the tension between them. Deacon wondered if the other man felt it too and that they’d both just been pretty good at hiding it, or if he was maybe more comfortable with all of this than Deacon had been. Well, at least he wasn’t the only person in the room who hated the Brotherhood of Steel anymore.

Deacon stood with arms crossed, leaning against the brick wall at the foot of the stairs leading down into the HQ. From there he watched as Danse answered many,  _ many _ nonsensical questions from Tom with a furrowed brow and irritated tone. It was fucking funny as all hell. The kind of comedy that really could’ve made a pretty penny before the war. 

_ Actually, maybe it could these days, too. Should he get the rights to this? No way Dez would agree to that though, right? _

Kinda absently he noticed Carrington approach and say something to him, but he was too invested in the story he was writing in his thoughts. He put a hand to his lips and laughed, and Carrington gave an exasperated sigh. 

“Are you sleeping with him, then?” He had since turned his attention back to the clipboard in his hands. Probably putting together a chart of Danse’s medical history.

“What? No, not yet.” Deacon chewed on his thumbnail, wishing for a cigarette. “I mean no, full stop. Don’t think I’m really his type, you know? Bet he’d go for some pretty, petite blonde. Or maybe some shiny suit of power armour, eh? Whatever those soldier types go for.”

He jabbed Carrington in the side with an elbow and laughed, loud and bright, earning a scowl from the doctor. 

“Kidding, kidding. Not saying that I wouldn’t, of course, just  _ look _ at him, but y’know. It’s not really the right time?” Deacon intended to look back at Danse while he gestured vaguely over to him, but he realized then that he had never really looked away from him since this conversation began. Hell, he hadn’t looked away since they properly got downstairs and started this whole initiation procedure. “Why, what’s up? You don’t usually ask that kinda thing, doc. Not even when you’re filling out those fancy charts of yours. Only really matters if he’s out, y’know, sleeping with ghouls or whatever the hell folks are up to these days, right?”

Deacon still hadn’t quite turned to properly look at Carrington, but he could recognize the motions of someone rolling his eyes any day, even from the corner of his vision.

“Oh, no. I was just wondering how low  _ you _ might stoop.” 

Okay, so  _ now _ he looked at Carrington, mock shock and offence written all over his face. 

“Aw, c’mon! What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You know me, doc, I’ve never stooped! Not once in my life!” That had to be one of the most bold-faced lies Deacon had ever told, and Carrington most definitely knew it. Deacon’s promiscuity was fairly well known within the Railroad - hell, he must have slept with half the agents he’d met, and it’s not like that was something they’d all agreed to keep a secret. Carrington shot him a disapproving, unamused look. Deacon answered it with a scoff, a laugh, and a light punch to his shoulder.

“Oh, fuck off, man! You don’t get to look at me like that!” Carrington  _ tsk _ ed and looked disapprovingly down at his clipboard, as if that's what was lying to him.

“Yes, well. Mess around with fellow agents all you want, Deacon, but you ought to be more careful with Brotherhood types. Not to be trusted.” And with that, Carrington turned his attention back to Tom and Danse.

Deacon scoffed. Shook his head. Fished a cigarette from the pack in his back pocket once he had chewed his nail down to the nub and needed something else to occupy his mouth.

He didn't need to listen to a lecture about trust from fucking  _ Carrington _ of all people. Dez, sure, but not the right-hand-man with a stick up his ass. Deacon knew better than anyone never to trust people - but, thinking that, his mind couldn't help but conjure images of the fellow Railroad agents he'd probably admit he trusted if it really came down to it. Hell, he'd sacrifice himself for plenty of people out there, and he believed most of 'em would do the same for him.

Would Danse?

Maybe it was naive to think Danse might. But Deacon had heard a couple second hand stories about a somewhat self-sacrificing nature, and he seemed more than eager to pull the trigger in Deacon's place against those raiders on the outskirts of Boston. 

Deacon shook his head. That was a senseless act of violence, not a show of protection.

Their eyes met from metres away from one another. Danse seemed to be searching for a little help in escaping his current conversation with Tom and Carrington, but Deacon kept his expression impassive, slowly exhaling smoke.

Strangely Danse certainly seemed to trust him enough to quite literally  _ beg _ Deacon to let him keep his memories. He had a tough time believing Danse had ever gone to  anyone  at all in the whole goddamn 'Wealth and pleaded like that before. The other man would never admit it, nor did he probably know it at all, but Deacon had seen the beginnings of tears in those dark brown eyes when he asked to keep what little he had to his name. 

Not many synths behaved like that. At least, not that Deacon had ever really seen. Most that had escaped seemed eager to rid themselves of their past lives and synths that were marked MIA during missions on the surface didn't seem to mind forgetting the false information given to them to better blend in and replace someone. And yet, Danse was so desperate to cling to his past, regardless of how traumatic it might be to him now.

Speaking of which, did they know yet what exactly Danse was doing on the surface with apparently no memories of the Institute? Tom hadn't come over to rant and rave about it, so maybe not yet, but he could've just as easily gotten distracted poking around in Danse's mind or bothering him with conspiracy theories.

Deacon pushed himself away from the wall and stepped forwards toward the trio, tuning in to listen to their conversation.

“I'm tellin’ you man, it's a freakin’  _ miracle  _ those Institute freaks ain't brought you in yet! For sure they've got you bugged up, know your whole damn life, start to finish!”

“I don't honestly… No, I don't believe that's true.”

“And your medical history? Anything significant to note? Do you smoke? Chems? How many drinks do you consume in a week, on average?”

Danse's exasperation with the two was honestly more than a little funny. Now that he had walked closer, Deacon flicked his cigarette butt to the gravel floor and offered a sympathetic look. But his barely restrained laughter probably didn't do much to make him seem kind.

The former soldier was currently sitting between both Tom and Carrington while they stood over him, each with a drastically different clipboard in hand, his head turning back and forth between them rapidly to keep up with answering their questions. 

“So? We all playing nice together over here?” The trio each shot him their unique brand of  _ 'withering look’.  _ Deacon simply offered up a lopsided grin in response. 

“I’m trying to explain my clean medical records to…  _ whoever _ it may be that passes for a doctor here.” Danse straightened up in his seat with a look of disgust plastered on his face - giving Deacon the opportunity to take stock of his new outfit. Honestly it was nothing short of a friggin’ miracle that someone was able to get him out of that horrible orange jumpsuit. That jacket was alright, at least, but they didn’t compare to his new look in terms of sheer  _ blandness _ , which is exactly what he would need to blend in with the rest of the ‘Wealth folks outside. They’d managed to dress up the former soldier in a stained old plaid button-up shirt and tattered, cuffed jeans. Hell, even Deacon had to admit that he didn’t look half bad. 

...Er. Convincing. He looked convincing, as he should, playing the part of some ‘wealth trader or settler from here on out, although they’d have to get him to work on that awful stern, angry tone of voice he always spoke in. Too drill sergeant-y.

“What, you mean to tell us good folks that you’ve never had a night of  _ outstanding passion _ with a ghoul? Or gone on a week long jet bender?” Deacon had choked up a little at the beginning of his speech - just some frog in his throat, duh - but had pushed through it with a playful smile while leaning back against a nearby desk and crossing his arms over his chest. Danse tried to stare past his sunglasses with a disapproving glare.

“You must know that I--”

“Nah, ‘course you’re the straight-edge type, huh?” He raised one hand to gesture back at Danse while pretending to whisper (at full volume) in Carrington’s direction. “Just write down  _ ‘nerd’ _ . Dez’ll know what it means.”

Again, he was met with a pair of scoffs and a single amused laugh from Tom, of course. Deacon shot him a finger gun of appreciation before the two turned their attention back to poking and prodding Danse with all manner of questions and tests. The hand on his shoulder would’ve probably made him jump if he couldn’t recognize it while drunk as a skunk and half dead in some piss-soaked Goodneighbour alleyway. 

“Come on, over here.” Drummer Boy interrupted just as he was opening his mouth to speak. Not that it really mattered, it was probably just gonna be something sarcastic about their newest synth pal. Regardless, Deacon trailed behind him away from the trio at Tom’s small workspace, towards a quieter corner of HQ. 

So something that wasn’t meant to be overheard by said aforementioned synth pal.

“Dez wants you to bring him to Goodneighbour. See if Amari can make sense of what’s in that head of his.”

For once, Deacon frowned. Nothing sarcastic about it. He even lowered his voice to match Drummer’s, leaning against the nearest brick wall as though they were having a casual conversation about anything  _ but _ the fate of their newest friend. 

“Why? What’d you find on him?”

An uneasy, unsure shrug and matching grimace were the first answers he got.

“It’s just… Look, it’s hard to describe. It’s more what we  _ didn’t _ find. From what we’ve got on him, he’s just… MIA.” 

Deacon swallowed thickly. Something in his chest felt like it dropped to his stomach and opened a pit there. 

“C’mon. You’re missing something. Get your tech geeks together and just have another-...”

This time he was interrupted only by a shake of Drummer Boy’s head.

“He’s MIA, Deacon. There’s something he isn’t telling you. Guarantee it.”

“He’s not… I know it looks bad on a guy like him, but  _ come on _ .” Danse wouldn’t lie to him, right? He claimed to have no knowledge at all about his synth nature, no memories whatsoever of the Institute or any mission sending him to the surface to replace someone else. But…

“Runaways aren’t MIA. And synth’s like  _ him _ -” A brief nod in Danse’s direction, “- they hang onto their memories of their handlers.”

Deacon reminded himself of his same old mantra about trusting nobody. Part of him wanted to bicker that he  _ didn’t _ trust Danse, that it didn’t much matter to him whether or not the former soldier lied because that was all in a day’s work to him, but… A tiny part of him stung at the thought. They hadn’t known each other for a long time, per se, but he’d seen a lot of vulnerability in Danse in such a short time. More than Deacon himself had ever shown in a lifetime. Something like that couldn’t help but spark a little faith in Danse, small and reluctant as it may be. He couldn’t believe how much he  _ hated _ the idea of being lied to by that man. 

Three quick snaps only an inch or so from his face brought him back to reality.

“You listening to me, Deacon? I get it, field agents like you’ve always got something to be worried about, but Dez just wants you to be careful. And me too. Not that we don’t think you can do the job or anything, of course, there’s just an awful lot of holes in that guy’s story.”

Admittedly, Deacon had tuned out a little again. His thoughts bounced between a handful of things - Danse’s MIA status according to Institute info on him, that he’d chewed his lip so much just then that it was bleeding now,  _ ouch _ , that it just didn’t add up that Danse would have zero recollection of anything related to the Institute.

“...Yeah. I get it. It’s weird.” It took him a long few moments of hesitation to finally get that out. Deacon wasn’t sure at what point his gaze had drifted back across the HQ to keep an eye on Danse, but from the corner of his vision he could recognize Drummer Boy looking at him impatiently. 

“ _ Uh-huh _ . Just don’t get too wrapped up in screwing him to remember your mission.” He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest and turning to walk off. “Goodneighbour. Amari. Then right back here with whatever you dig up.”

All prior traces of that dreamy absentmindedness having now faded from his head, Deacon laughed and raised one hand to flip off Drummer while he walked away. Not that he’d turn around far enough to see it, but it made him feel a little better.

_ Don’t know why they can’t just take the man at his word… _ His thoughts were bitter and accompanied by grumbling and eyes rolling as he pushed himself off the wall he’d leaned against and made his way towards his latest damsel in distress. 

***

They could have spent the night at HQ if they wanted. The sun was only beginning to set when they’d first arrived, so by the time they finally stepped outside once again, it was fully dark outside save for the twinkle of countless stars in the night sky. They  _ could _ have stayed in the HQ and Deacon offered up plenty of decent reasons to explain why they weren’t, namely that they only had so many mattresses down there and he wasn’t about to start losing at rock-paper-scissors in front of Danse, of all people. Besides, they wouldn’t be any more comfortable than what a cheap hotel in Goodneighbour could offer them, it wouldn’t be very long of a walk anyway so they might as well just get it over with… 

Deacon would’ve found a way to scrounge up more excuses, but the first one had earned him the  _ slightest _ little smile when he tipped his head to look for a reaction from Danse. 

He’d take that to mean Danse bought it. Above all else, it was just relieving to see the man without a frown on his face.

Now that the mood felt a little bit lighter, Deacon didn’t feel quite so bad about the delay in their mission and the subsequent dragging around of Danse. He might if Danse was in any worry to get somewhere - but hey, he had nothing else to do, so what was the harm in it? Deacon watched his nose wrinkle in disgust as the front gate to Goodneighbour creaked shut behind them and the full weight of their surroundings set in.

“Somehow… I think I was picturing something different.” 

“What, you’ve never stopped by Goodneighbour before?” Now that was actually a bit of a surprise. Wasn’t Danse in charge of a recon squad? Checking out shitholes like this was sort of his job, wasn’t it? 

“Well, not exactly. But I have heard about it in passing from a few, ah… locals.” Danse eyed a couple of drifters leaning lazily against brick walls suspiciously as they passed. 

“Not your kinda place? You’re not into getting shanked in a piss-soaked alley? Huh. Who’d have thought.” Deacon tried to feign nonchalance but failed when Danse turned just enough to look shocked and mortified. He burst into laughter. “Kidding, kidding! We’ve just got a couple friends in town to check up on.”

Danse’s expression changed to something more like ‘plain old skeptical’. At least that was an emotion Deacon was more used to dealing with. 

They ducked into the entrance of the Third Rail; Deacon silently and Danse making some passing remark about the sorry state of the Old State House these days or the dawning realization that they had just entered an old subway tunnel. One that had been turned into an undoubtedly sketchy underground bar and often drug den, at that. Danse’s scowl of disapproval was almost audible.

“Something the matter?” Deacon called, waiting halfway down the stairs for Danse to catch up with him, voice raised just a touch or two above normal volume to be heard over the music and chatter. 

“They… didn’t mention we would be going to a bar. Neither did you.” His tone and glare were both equally accusatory. At least Deacon was getting well used to that from the man.

“Oh, no, it wasn’t in the itinerary at all. I just figured the both of us were about due for a proper drink and some real music. You ever seen Magnolia? Sometimes DC Radio plays a song or two of hers, but it just doesn’t compare to the live shows.” Deacon turned to continue their walk downstairs, but didn’t miss the spreading frown on Danse’s features. He was bound to object at this rate - stop in his tracks, talk down to Deacon (literally, he was still a few steps behind), and storm off to the Hotel Rexford. So Deacon decided to just beat him to the punch - reaching out to take his wrist and look at him about as genuinely as possible through his sunglasses. “Just one drink and we can go, if that’s what you wanna do. But I’m not kidding when I say we both could use one, considering the past couple days we’ve both had, eh?”

Well, at least that seemed to get through to him. Danse still seemed like he was teetering on the edge of uneasy, but at least he gave a polite nod before wrenching his wrist free of Deacon’s grip. He smiled up at the former soldier and gestured ahead of them silently in a show of leading the way. He couldn’t help but think back to earlier, when Danse had quite literally pleaded with him to let him keep his memories. Ultimately that wouldn’t really be Deacon’s decision, but he’d long since decided to put in a good word in Danse’s defence. 

“Should we… find somewhere to sit?”

Danse’s voice snagged his attention again through the thrum of the music and chatter in the bar around them. Deacon figured he’d still have to be the one to lead them around, waving for Danse to follow him as he made his way over to a couch in the back corner. Far from the bar, even further from the stage, but about the quietest seats they could get without sneaking their way into the VIP lounge. He figured that as much as Danse might enjoy the music, he’d probably appreciate a decent conversation a little more. Right? Deacon himself couldn’t stand more than a minute or so without talking, so he sort of just always figured everyone else was wired the same way. 

“Okay big guy,  you sit tight while I grab us a couple beers, alright?” Actually, the look on Danse’s face told him he definitely  _ wasn’t _ alright with that, but he’d turned his back and began his stroll over to the bar before he could get a word in edgewise. 

Lo and behold,  _ ‘a couple beers’ _ turned to a couple beers each, and then several. If Deacon were to be honest for once in his life, he’d admit that he hadn’t actually intended to get either of them drunk, but once Danse had relaxed and grown seemingly more comfortable with the sketchy bar atmosphere, he was easier to talk to. 

“- So the Scribe, he tells me, he says -”

Deacon didn’t think he even noticed before that Danse’s eyes were brown; deep and rich and so dark they bordered on black, like freshly brewed coffee. Maybe he could have even compared them to a starry night sky, if that wasn’t far too sappy and romantic for someone he could barely count as a friend. Typically they were so cold and commanding, or over the past couple days, empty save for some awful, profound sorrow - like the one he saw just a couple hours ago, when Danse begged him to leave his memories alone.

"- And you won't believe what falls out of his pockets -"

It felt so weird to see that kind of change in the man’s expression. And even weirder still to see him smiling and laughing like nothing at all was wrong anymore. Well, okay, maybe not  _ nothing _ , but he was feeling a hell of a lot more okay if he was laughing and joking around, telling an old story like this. With that coy little grin on his rough lips, half-hidden behind one hand, crinkles replacing the beginnings of tears at the corners of his sparkling eyes. And God, that  _ laugh _ . Deacon thought for sure they’d both been drinking old, lukewarm beer, but that noise made it bubble in his stomach like top shelf champagne. 

Okay, so maybe Deacon's getting a little sappy after all. Or maybe it's just easier nowadays to forget about the mission at hand or the suggestion from Drummer Boy that Danse might be lying about his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahaha, here i am again, thanking everyone for continued patience while i keep cranking chapters out!! you're all seriously the best <33


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